The Trees They Do Grow High
by Eienvine
Summary: 4xD AU Lady Dorothy de Catalonia finds herself forced to marry Quatre Winner de Raberba for the sake of a treaty. Can two people who are so different learn to love each other? COMPLETE
1. Chapter One

I'm normally not a Dorothy/Quatre shipper, but they simply fit the song so well. This is based on the traditional song "The Trees They Do Grow High." I am basing off the version performed by Bernie and Barbara McDonald, which omits several verses. There will probably be two more chapters after this.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. The song, however, is traditional, so I can pretend I own it all I want. Ha! It's my song! Mine! My own! What are you going to do about it?

Rating: very decent

P.S. I used a bit of older vocabulary to spice things up. Just so you know, the word kirk means church.

Enjoy.

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The Trees They Do Grow High

_The trees they grow high and the leaves they grow green  
Many is the time that my own true love I've seen  
Many is an hour that I've watched him all alone  
For he's young, but he's daily growin'_

The great wooden doors creaked open, and after one last adjustment of her coifed hair, Dorothy swept into the room with all the grace and majesty she'd been raised to display. As she passed by, the manservant at the door called out, "M'lord, the Lady Dorothy de Catalonia." At the sound, the imposing figure on the other side of the room rose and beckoned for her to come in. Dorothy walked to where he stood and gave a sweeping bow befitting a man of his rank. The man, Falkirk, duke of Dermail, nodded slightly to her and sat back down in his chair. She stood next to his chair, her hands clasped formally, and waited to hear what her grandfather had to say.

As Dorothy waited for the duke to collect his thoughts, she glanced discreetly around the room, reveling in the chance to be in his presence again. She'd been delighted to get his summons, as she hadn't seen her grandfather in several months. He'd just returned from a long trip, and she'd been waiting since then for him to ask for her. She adored her grandfather. He'd taken her in when her parents died in her youth, and he let her stay at his castle, Dermail Hall, for several months out of every year, giving her a welcome respite from the isolation she felt at her own home. As the duke of all of Dermail, he governed all of the land, but divided parts of it between each of his sons. Catalonia, the region that had been her father's, was far away in the south and very isolated from real civilization. Now that her father was dead, her grandfather had taken over the ruling of that land again, but Dorothy was still forced to live there part of the year.

Her grandfather had always been good to her. He'd let her learn to use a sword and a bow, which was unheard of for a woman, and had even let her learn to read and write. Beyond this kindness, though, what she admired most about him was that he had been a great war hero in his day, and now ruled Dermail with such strength that few people dared oppose him in anything. She hoped to one day be as strong as he was.

The duke finally seemed ready to speak. "My granddaughter," he began, and then spoke the last words she expected to hear. "You are near grown, now, and I have decided that you shall marry." Only years of training and her good breeding kept Dorothy's jaw from dropping. His words bounced around in her head as she tried to process them. Marry? Though she tried to keep her face icy, her grandfather saw her discomposure and laughed.

"You are surprised?" he asked, and she nodded. "I- I did not think to marry, my lord," she said, and he raised an eyebrow. "Start thinking about it," he said dispassionately, and nodded to the manservant to show her out. "Come to the banquet tonight. You shall meet him there."

_"Father, dear father, you've done me a great wrong  
For you have married me to a lad who is too young  
I am twice twelve and he is but fourteen  
He's young but he's daily growin'."_

That night, Dorothy arrived at the great hall some time before the meal began and sat in her usual seat, to her grandfather's left. There were many more tables set out than normal, as the duke had many guests for the evening, who had not yet arrived. The meal wouldn't begin for some time yet, but she'd been on edge all afternoon and had nothing else to do. She sat up straight, fiddling with the edge of her long sleeve under the table, and thought.

She was shocked, to say the least, at her grandfather's announcement. She had always thought to be man's equal, not his servant. She wanted to rule Catalonia, to lead armies, to fight and win glory for her name. On the other hand, she had never disobeyed her grandfather before. She felt sure that he, being so wise, wouldn't do anything needlessly. She was just waiting to find out the reason for this command.

She didn't have to wait long. A few minutes before the guests came in to eat, the duke entered the room and took his usual chair. He sat in silence for a few moments, while Dorothy felt her confusion and curiosity welling up in her. Just when she thought she would burst, he spoke up. "Child, you know we have many rivals," he said in his usual way of starting into conversations without introduction. Dorothy nodded. "We have recently invested in gold mines in the southern islands, and it may become very lucrative. Our claim, however, is next to that of a powerful family, and we must keep the peace with them to keep our claim. I have spent some time visiting them, and it has been decided that we must form a bond between our families. You, as the only single female of age in the family, must marry the lord's nephew." 

And that was that. The Duke said no more on the subject. Dorothy knew he never went back on his word, so she knew that with those simple words, he had uttered a curse on her of unhappiness for all of her life. Had anyone else ordered her to marry, she would have argued back, or run away, or possibly just run the offender through with her broadsword. But she couldn't go against the will of her revered grandfather. Swallowing her objections and her pride, she nodded meekly and waited to meet her ball-and-chains to be.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open and the duke's guests walked in. Dorothy's eyes were glued to the figures who came in, wondering which would be her husband. The manservant at the door announced each guest. "Baron Richard of the noble house of Raberba." Too old to be the nephew. "Lord Aschil and Lady Ragenildac de Raberba." Already married.

"Sir Colegrim de Raberba." At this, a tall man walked in, dark-haired and strong, a battle scar on his jaw. _Surely_, Dorothy thought, _this must be him_. She found herself actually excited by the prospect. The man was interesting, handsome, and obviously a fighter. Their marriage might actually turn out well.

Behind Colegrim came a much younger man, scarcely more than a boy, who the manservant announced as "Sir Quatre Winner de Raberba." The duke nudged Dorothy. "That's him," he murmured, and Dorothy turned to stare at the young man, her daydream shattering. "That's him?" she whispered, forgetting how rude it was to address the duke so. "He's but a lad!"

"Hold your tongue," he retorted sharply. "He's barely younger than you." Dorothy nodded meekly, then turned to stare at her future husband. He was barely taller than she was, slight, with fair hair and large blue eyes. She couldn't believe that she would be married to a mere boy. At that moment, her intended glanced over at her. Seeing her staring at him, he gave her a small smile that only made him look younger. Dorothy looked away and stared at the table. She was being married off to a child.

_"Daughter, dear daughter, I've done you no wrong  
For I have a married you to a brave lord's son  
And he will be a man to you when I'm dead and gone  
For he's young but he's daily growin'."_

They married one month later. The duke would have had it sooner, but Quatre's aunt Ragenildac insisted that Dorothy must be given a month to prepare her dress and trousseau. She didn't realize that Dorothy didn't care at all whether her home was stocked with sufficient linens. She probably would have married in one of the same dresses she wore everyday had one of her aunts not intervened. The woman had no daughters of her own and had never gotten to help a young bride, and so subjected Dorothy to her fussing. Dorothy was forced to endure numerous fittings and meetings with the dressmaker for the whole month.

The Raberbas left the morning after the banquet to return home. Dorothy was glad of it; she was afraid that if she spent any more time around Quatre, she'd get to like him even less then she did now, and then she'd never be able to go through with the wedding. They'd had a rather stilted, awkward conversation over their meal that night she'd seen him. The awkwardness was her fault. He was actually a good conversationalist, but she hadn't been helping him out much. The one time she did talk to him was to ask him about his surname, Winner, which she'd hoped would turn out to be a war story and that she'd find something she liked about him. The answer, however, only solidified her dislike of him. "My uncle's men were to entering a war with a neighboring land," he'd said earnestly, his big blue eyes on her. "I was at a meeting between my uncle and the opposing leader, and I succeeding in persuading them to stop. My uncle declared that I was the true winner of the conflict, and the name caught on." It was all she could do to keep from snorting. To be married to such a pacifist! She didn't manage to hide her disgust well, and his face fell and he started concentrating very hard on his food.

Still, pacifist or no, she was married to him on the feast day of John the Baptist, late at the end of August. The marriage was performed at the kirk of Dermail Hall by the stern-faced, haughty priest who had been arrived at the kirk the year before. Quatre's family had arrived late the night before, and Dorothy hadn't even seen him yet–not that she cared, but the whole setup seemed rude to her.

When he did arrive, he was clad in a richly embroidered blue tunic that brought out the color of his eyes, as she would have seen if she'd been looking. She herself was in a new dress of light blue with long trailing sleeves that she had to tie in knots to keep from dragging on the ground. Her long blonde hair was braided down her back and crowned with a richly jeweled chaplet. She looked beautiful, even more so than she herself realized, but it seemed a waste of money to her. After all, this wasn't really a wedding. This was passing sentence on two people who didn't know each other and hadn't seen each other in a month.

When the ceremony was over, Dorothy wordlessly let herself be led out of the church and into the carriage that was taking the newlyweds to her homeland of Catalonia, where they were to live. Quatre helped her in to the carriage, then climbed in himself. The wedding party waved enthusiastically at them, and Quatre waved back, but Dorothy didn't even bother to lean out the window. Her husband settled himself on the bench next to her, and she immediately moved to the other side of the carriage. He didn't respond, turning instead to look out the window as the carriage rumbled into motion.

Dorothy was perfectly content to ride in silence, but apparently Quatre wasn't. A few minutes after leaving Dermail Hall, he turned to look at her earnestly. "M'lady, allow me to-" "Do not address me so intimately," she butted in. "We may be married, but I am not yours." After this outburst, she bit her lip and waited for him to react. If she had spoken so to the duke, he would have struck her for her impertinence. Quatre looked surprised, but then gave her a smile that looked only partly saddened by her rudeness and asked, "What shall I call you then?" She raised her eyebrows at him. He wasn't angry with her? She snorted to herself. _Weakling_. "Address me as Dorothy. It is a common name any fool may use."

Quatre looked at her with soulful blue eyes that, this time, did look hurt. When he spoke, though, it was not about how she'd hurt him. "Lady Dorothy, I truly am sorry that you were forced into this marriage. If I could stop your pain, I would, truly." "How nice for you," she said snidely. "I'm retiring now. Do not disturb me." Wrapping her traveling cloak around herself, she leaned against the side of the carriage and drifted off to sleep.

When she awoke, the carriage was at an inn and the sun was sinking in the sky. The driver was talking to Quatre, who immediately relayed the information to Dorothy when he saw she was awake. "Change the horses and drive on," she declared immediately in response to his question. "I do not wish to remain at this inn and on this journey any longer than I must." The driver nodded and she immediately wrapped her cloak back around herself and went back to sleep.

When she awoke again, the sky was pitch black and the carriage was pulling in front of a stone hall that was quite small in comparison with Dermail Hall. Dorothy grinned in satisfaction and let herself out of the carriage, eager to fall into her old, comfortable bed- alone. She had already decided that she was not going to bed Quatre. Another man would probably force her to, but luckily Quatre was easily bent to the will of others. Behind her, Quatre was just waking from his own nap. She turned back to him. "This is Catalonia House. You may sleep in my parents' room; the servants will show you the way. I will be in my own room." Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and entered the house.

Catalonia House was quite small, requiring less than a dozen servants to run. For Dorothy, though, it held many happy memories of youth, and she was glad to be back. She would return to her own house, and spend her days doing all the things she did as a child. The only change would be her newly-wedded lord, but she didn't see that his presence would make any difference at all.

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Please review! Next chapter should be up fairly soon.


	2. Chapter Two

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I decided to update the story! Because Gundam Wing . . . is Irish . . . kind of. And the song might be. I've been listening to Tears for Beers today- if ever who have a chance to hear Drunken Sailor by them, do it- at least, if Germans singing rocked-out sea chanties appeals to you.

Hey! Thanks so much to those who reviewed. Those who didn't, consider this a subtle hint. :) Oh, and to Candide Avedo- I expect you to keep up your guaranteed review. (insert overused smilie here)

  
  
  


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_"Oh, Father, dear father, if you do see fit  
Send my love to college for one year yet  
And tie blue ribbons all about his hair  
For to let the ladies know that he's married."_

  
  
  


The next morning Dorothy awoke early and went down to eat her breakfast. Quatre, already seated at the table, smiled when she entered, but she ignored him. She grabbed a loaf of bread and left the hall immediately, heading out to the stables. She spent the day out riding her favorite horse, Hecate, visiting all the places she loved. When she returned late that night, she found Quatre at the table, holding supper until her arrival. She flopped ungracefully down in a chair and ate quickly and silently. Her husband, apparently uncomfortable with the silence, talked to her all the while, though she never answered. As soon as the meal was done, Dorothy hurried to her room, where she read a book until the low light from the candles began to hurt her eyes. Snuffing the lights, she stripped down to her shift and fell into her bed, feeling very satisfied with the way she'd spent her day.

Many weeks passed in this way. Dorothy spent all of her time out of doors or in the stables. How Quatre spent his time she wasn't sure, but he had a large collection of books, and most likely whiled away the hours with them. When evening fell, Dorothy would go to supper and find Quatre always waiting for her. He would always spend the entire meal talking to her. After a few weeks of this, Dorothy began responding to his conversation. She discovered that he had some good ideas, but many more bad ones, and she took great delight in arguing with him. Although he usually let her win the arguments, they were an interesting way to spend the meal.

  
  
  


As the summer turned into fall and days began getting shorter, supper began to be served earlier. Once the meal was done, Dorothy had many hours to fill before she slept, and her books were beginning to bore her. By mid-October, she had begun to spend some of her evenings playing chess against Quatre. He'd challenged her to a game once, and wanting to prove her superiority to him, she'd accepted. She'd won that game easily, which annoyed her. "Don't try to mollycoddle me," she'd said warningly. "There's no glory beating you if you don't even try." Quatre had smiled. She hadn't won a game since then. Quatre turned out to be a master chess player, and though Dorothy refused to admit it, she learned a great deal from playing him.

As they played chess, Dorothy and Quatre would continue their discussions from supper, though more casually, as they were both concentrating on their games. In these peaceful, unguarded moments, Dorothy would sometimes find Quatre looking at her with a content smile on his face, as though to say that he was happy that she was there. At these times, she would make a snide remark to remind him that he was only a way for her to pass the time. His eyes would inevitably drop quietly to the chessboard as he meekly accepted her insults, and she would smile at having put him back in his place, and the game would continue.

There was only one time that they had a serious disagreement. They were discussing politics and ruling systems when Quatre inadvertently implied that he felt that the duke of Dermail was a tyrant. Dorothy stood immediately from her chair. "Do not speak so disrespectfully of my grandfather!" she shouted. Quatre immediately blanched. "I didn't mean for it come out that way- I'm sorry-" Dorothy was beyond listening. "He is great man, and a great ruler, and a great fighter, and he is ten times the man you will ever be!" She stormed out of the room with all the rage she could muster, and carefully avoided her husband for the next two days. By the end of the second day, however, she was back at the chessboard, looking for a gap in Quatre's defense.

  
  
  


Winter came mildly to Catalonia. The wind turned colder after All Saints' Day, and by the end of November there was a dusting of snow across the high hills around Catalonia House. Dorothy's daily rides began getting shorter and closer to the castle, as neither she nor Hecate enjoyed going into those hills when they were covered with snow. Instead, she spent much of her time in the ruins of the old courtyard, where the fallen stones caught the weak sun and the leaves of autumn still clung to the trees. The courtyard, situated directly behind the castle, had been abandoned in favor of a newer one some hundreds of years earlier. Besides being warm and quiet, it was always empty and there were no castle windows looking on to it, so Dorothy could be quite alone while there. She would change into breeches and tie her hair back, then practice with a wooden sword her grandfather had given her. No stone or tree was safe from her attacks.

One day in late November, Dorothy was taking a break from her sword and resting in the sun on a fallen stone. Her reverie was broken when footsteps sounded behind her. Whirling around, she saw her husband walking into her sanctuary. In one hand he held a wooden practice sword similar to her own. Dorothy immediately felt annoyed at his presumption that she would want to spar with him, but at the same time she wanted to know which of the pair was better. Her curiosity overcame her annoyance, and without words she picked up her sword and stood to face him. Quatre smiled and lifted his sword.

Quatre turned out to not to be nearly as good as the duke or any of Dorothy's uncles, but he was very agile and had beautiful style. The pair were very evenly matched opponents. Dorothy had better technique and more skill, but tried to follow the duke's example of relying on strength, which she didn't have much of. Quatre had obviously spent less time in his study of the sword, but he was quick and very clever.

Their match ranged all over the courtyard and lasted until Dorothy felt sure her arm would fall off. Finally, she managed to disarm Quatre and advanced on him, sword tip pointed at his throat. He backed up and tripped, falling onto a large stone. Dorothy smirked and fell onto a large flat stone next to him, dropping her sword and sighing in relief. Quatre turned to her and smiled. Though Dorothy didn't smile back, she didn't frown, either, and that seemed to satisfy the fair-haired young man at her side.

After that, Quatre came out to spar with her almost every afternoon. During this time they rarely spoke to each other, concentrating instead on the fight. Dorothy won more often than Quatre, but not by much. They were so closely matched in ability that he turned out to be a perfect sparring partner. Over time, they both began improving greatly, though Quatre didn't seem to care if he was any good with a sword at all.

Dorothy soon realized that she spent most of her days in Quatre's company: they would eat breakfast together, then she would read while he tended to business affairs. After the midday meal, they would change clothes and go outside to the courtyard. After they were both too tired to continue their sparring, they would go inside to change clothes, then go to dinner. After they'd finished eating, they would play chess and talk until they went to their respective rooms to sleep. It nettled her somewhat to know that she depended on her husband for entertainment, but she told herself that once the weather warmed up again she would return to her daily rides and be out of his company.

  
  
  


They spent the month of December this same way, except on Sundays, when they attended Mass at the tiny kirk on the hill overlooking the castle. As the feudal lords of the land, they had a special pew reserved for them; behind them sat the castle's few servants and the peasants from the surrounding lands. The priest was a kindly old man who had been at the kirk for longer than anyone could remember; he had married Dorothy's parents and christened her a few days after her birth. Dorothy attended church faithfully- her family had been devout Catholics for hundreds of years and she held their religion as a matter of pride. Quatre had no such reasons, but he still attended faithfully; sneaking glances at him during the meeting, Dorothy suspected from his reverent manner that he attended because of strong religious beliefs. Another weakness, she would think to herself with a smirk.

Christmas was a small affair, because of their isolation; still, they held feasts and celebrations on each day between Christmas and Epiphany, as feudal lords ought to do for their subjects. The celebrations were simply smaller than most. The housekeeper took care of all of the arrangements, as Dorothy had little interest in such affairs. Still, sitting at the head of the table, granting a kiss to the peasant who was named king of the revels, she felt a certain sense of belonging and pride at taking over the offices she had once seen performed by her mother. All in all, Dorothy found herself feeling somewhat content with her present lifestyle, a feeling which was rather unfamiliar to her.

  
  
  


Three days after Epiphany, Dorothy and Quatre were sparring in the courtyard. The sky overhead was gray and heavy with the threat of snow. Dorothy, practicing a lunge Quatre had taught her, found herself having too easy a time disarming her blue-eyed companion. "What is it?" she asked, breaking their unspoken rule that their time in the courtyard was for sparring only and not conversation. "If you're not going to spar properly, leave now and stop wasting my time." Quatre lowered his sword and smiled at her. She simply looked at him, knowing he knew exactly what she was talking about it. He looked at her a moment, then sighed at her stubbornness.

"I'm leaving next week," he said, and Dorothy felt an unfamiliar feeling briefly pass through her, constricting her chest. What did he mean by 'leave?' Not for good, certainly? "I have to return to my family to attend to some business affairs," he added, and Dorothy felt the feeling in her chest loosen.

"How long will you be?" she asked him, wondering even as she said it why she cared. "I hope to return before the end of Lent," he replied. Dorothy looked at his warm, affectionate expression, then realized she was gazing at him with concern in her eyes. Immediately she straightened and tossed her braided hair back over her shoulder. "Hmm," was all she said.

Quatre left the next Wednesday, Dorothy and the servants coming to the door to see him off. As the stable hand loaded his trunk onto the carriage and the servants began to walk back inside the castle, the fair-haired young man approached his wife nervously. "Dorothy," he began, "I worry about you being here alone. What if something should happen to you? Maybe you should go stay with an uncle, or . . ."

Dorothy felt herself begin to get angry at his inadvertently condescending words. "I am not the weakling you think I am, Quatre," she said lowly, glaring up at him through dark lashes. "I survived without you for years, and I will be fine without you now." "Dorothy-" he began, putting a hand on her shoulder, but she walked away and into the house. Stopping at the door, she turned back to him. "Just leave," she said angrily, and he looked at her a long moment before climbing into the carriage.

Walking back into the castle, Dorothy smiled at having asserted her independence once again. She had put her weakling husband back in his place. Then her smile faltered. She had reminded him exactly how she felt- or did not feel- about him. She had triumphed. Why, then, did she suddenly feel so sad? An image of Quatre's face just before he'd gotten into the carriage came, unbidden, into her mind- his bright blue eyes dimmed, looking sorrowfully at her. Why did it bother her? Almost without thinking, Dorothy walked to the front door again and watched the carriage drive away until it disappeared out of sight.

  
  
  
  
  
  


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Erin go bragh! Umm, I mean . . . please review. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

  
  
  



	3. Chapter Three

Hey, sorry it's been so long! I've had finals and a trip to DC and I don't know what else going on, but I'm here now. 

This, right here, is my FAVORITE chapter. It's kind of the climax- no, I guess it's one of two climaxes. Anyway, I had so much fun writing it. Yay for sap! It's also a bit longer than the last two (by "a bit" I mean "enormously.")

Oh, and by the way, if you know the original song well and are getting excited for the verse about the haystack, I'm sorry- I'm going off a version that doesn't have that verse, so there will be no lemons in this story. Sorry. But please enjoy the rest of it! 

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_And one day as I was lookin' o'er my father's castle wall  
I spied the boys all a-playin' in the hall  
My own true love was the flower of them all  
For he's young but he's daily growin'_

The day after Quatre left, the first snow of the season fell. Dorothy watched it from inside the house, sitting at the window in her bedroom. She'd spent the morning alternately wandering around the house and sitting in the library, trying to read. She felt too restless to concentrate on anything, though. As soon as the snow started she rushed to her room and sat in her window seat, staring at the falling flakes. She had no desire to go elsewhere. The castle and the surrounding grounds seemed bigger and emptier with Quatre gone. She was much happier to be holed up in her room with a fire going and a blanket around her shoulders.

At supper time she went to the table and ate quickly, feeling the oppressive silence around her grow heavier and heavier. Unable to finish her food, she went up to her room and lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep was a long time coming that night.

In the weeks that followed, Dorothy tried to trace the source of her melancholy. The feeling pervaded much of her time. She spent her days doing everything she had done in her youth, when her parents were dead and her grandfather had not invited her to the castle. She read what few books the castle had over and over again. She moved tables out of the way to practice sword fighting in the dining hall. She wrote letters to relatives and practiced her lute, which had been gathering dust since last summer. She even studied the Bible occasionally.

None of this, however, could afford her the contentment she had while felt doing the same things in her childhood. Then, to be allowed to do whatever she liked was all she could have asked for, and she had been happy in her time at Catalonia House and at Dermail Hall with her grandfather.

Or had she been happy? Looking back, she wasn't so sure. As time passed, the more Dorothy thought about the subject, the more she became sure that in her childhood she had not been happy- she'd simply been content because that was the only life she knew. She knew this just as surely as she now knew that her present melancholy came because she missed Quatre.

It had been a complete shock to her when she realized that she longed for the company of her young pacifist husband. Looking for a reason, she decided that she had simply grown accustomed to having him there. She was accustomed to having human contact, and with Quatre gone she had none. She had no friends or acquaintances, and the servants worked all the day long. She had no one to talk to. To make matters worse, Quatre did not write her, probably afraid of angering her again. Yes, that was it, she told herself. She'd grown accustomed to having the fair-haired boy around, and it felt strange to have him gone. That answer seemed satisfactory . . . mostly.

In February, a letter arrived from the duke. Dorothy ripped it open, thrilled to see a friendly hand. He inquired after her health, then said that since her husband was gone, would she like to come spend Lent at DermailHall? Dorothy grinned and pulled out a sheet to respond. It sounded like a wonderful way to chase out the last of winter. After finishing her response to the duke, she hesitated a long moment before beginning a second letter, this one to tell her husband where she would be. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt that she wanted to appease any worry he might feel at arriving at Catalonia House to find her gone. Shaking her head at the thought, she went to give the letters to a servant.

Dorothy arrived at Dermail Hall just in time for the beginning of Lent. Many relatives were there as well, and Dorothy was delighted to see all of them. The weeks to come promised to be exciting. DermailHall was much larger than Catalonia House, and Dorothy found plenty in it to amuse herself. She read from the large library, talked to her relatives, helped tend to the horses, and spent time practicing with a sword.

She found talking to her relatives to be a mixed experience. Her uncles and cousins were all fighters by birth and interesting to talk to, and she spent many happy hours in their company. Her aunts, however, were not nearly as entertaining. They sat together in the solarium, their heads bent over their embroidery, and talked about nothing for hours. They would speak of their children and husbands, of friends and acquaintances, of who was to marry who and how much someone's dress had cost. Dorothy found it to be very dull.

Sometimes, her aunts would include her in the conversation, but that was worse. They would ask constantly about Quatre, who they declared to be one of the handsomest men in the family. "Those eyes!" declared Aunt Cecelya, one hand over her heart. "None of my boys ever had eyes that bright." This was tolerable, but often the questions were more personal. On more than one occasion, one of her aunts had grinned slyly and casually asked Dorothy how she enjoyed her nights with Quatre. Dorothy, inwardly seething, would simply smile and refuse to answer, letting her aunts believe what they chose. These exchanges annoyed her greatly, and she spent as little time as possible in her aunts' company.

She spent much of her time practicing with a sword, often under the tutelage of one of her uncles or cousins, or the hall's man-at-arms. At first she practiced in unused rooms and hallways, but as the season went on and the weather grew warmer, she began taking her exertions outside, and ended up spending much of her time there.

In all this time, she hadn't seen her grandfather much; he had spent much of the time away, and during the time he was there he was usually too busy for her. He spent several weeks in March on a business visit, arriving home just a few weeks before Easter. It wasn't until he'd returned toDermail Hall that Dorothy heard, from an aunt, that he'd been visiting Sandrock Hall, the ancestral home of the Raberba family. She wasn't quite sure how that made her feel, so she simply shook off the feeling and concentrated on other things.

The first time Dorothy saw her grandfather after his return to Dermail Hall was a mere week before Easter and the end of Lent. She was outside, ostensibly to practice with her sword, but in truth she'd been spending most of the morning sitting on a sun-warmed rock and thinking. The topic of her thoughts was Quatre, as it had been often over the past few weeks; his voice was all around her, and the image of his face was always at the back of her mind. She'd tried to deny it at first, but she wasn't stupid, and she could tell when she was fighting a losing battle. Now, resigned, she allowed the thoughts to come and tried her best to sort them out.

That she missed him she'd already conceded; that she didn't hate him as she once had was a conclusion she'd reached sometime in March. But there was more to it than that. Such weak sentiments did not explain her frequent thoughts of him, or the way she subconsciously ran over in her mind every time they'd touched, however briefly or informally. As she sat on the rock, her sword hanging loosely from her hand, she tried to logically discern what it was she felt for him. 

Physically, there was attraction, to be sure. He was a bit short and slender for her tastes, but their time spent in physical combat together had showed her that there was much more to his slender frame than met the eye. His fair skin and smooth blonde hair made him seem a bit too angelic- she'd always been more attracted to the dark, rugged type- but there was something alluring in those soft tresses and beautiful blue eyes.

As for compatibility of personality, she knew they were opposite ends of the spectrum, but somehow that only made them compliment each other. They rarely fought, and they rarely got bored with each other. Conversation always flowed easily, and they shared so many of the same interests that they always found something to occupy their time with.

All that, however, didn't explain why she found herself longing for him in unguarded moments, or why she once, while talking to her aunts, wondered to herself why she'd never shared his bed. There was something more about him, with his old-fashioned ideals and his delicate grace and his endless chivalry and charity. It drew her to him, as much as she tried to fight it. She was fond of him, she discovered, though not, she was sure, the way her mother had been of her father, or some of her aunts were of their husbands. She was just. . . fond of him.

Dorothy was pondering this in the courtyard, nudging a pebble about with the toe of her boot, when the duke strode out of the castle. She was a bit surprised to see him; usually, if they met, it was a planned rendezvous for which she got formally dressed. More than surprise, though, she felt happiness at seeing a man who she still loved, idolized and respected. Setting her wooden practice sword on the ground, she rose to meet him and curtsied deeply.

When she looked at him, he was looking down at her in a way that made her somewhat uncomfortable. The look was almost instantly gone, though, and he smiled at his granddaughter and seated himself on the same rock she had been sitting on. "Grandfather," Dorothy said, smiling. "How have you been? How was your trip?" He waved her off. "Same old," he replied. "Come here and have a seat by me. I want to see how you've been."

Dorothy complied, seating herself carefully next to him on the large rock. She didn't know what she would say to him when he asked how she enjoyed married life, because she didn't know herself. He looked her up and down,then said, to her surprise, "You're a pretty girl, Dorothy. It's a pity we had to throw you away on that useless Raberba lad." 

Surprised, Dorothy almost opened her mouth to retort, then quickly calmed herself. She would never talk back to her grandfather. Instead, she simply shrugged and said carefully, "It hasn't been so bad. He's kind." She was going to leave it at that, but something in her grandfather's look said he was disappointed in her softness. Before she could stop it, she found herself saying, "And he's too cowardly to get in the way of me doing things I want to do." Her grandfather grinned in reply, but Dorothy felt somewhat repulsed with herself for betraying her husband that way.

Then the duke's face turned serious. "You asked about my visit to Sandrock Hall. Truth be known, I was not quite pleased with it." Dorothy raised her eyebrows, her conflicting emotions quickly forgotten. "Why?" she asked, her shrewdly political side surfacing with sudden interest.

The duke sighed. "The baron has grown more greedy," he said heavily. "He daily encroaches on our claim, moving his men onto lands that are rightfully ours and mining the gold that should have gone to us. I tried to speak with him about it, but he refuses to hear reason, so enamored of the gold is he. I fear this will lead to war." As she took all of the information in, Dorothy looked at the ground in concentration. With her eyes fixed on the dirt, she didn't see the small, malicious smile that found its way onto her grandfather's face.

"Does Quatre know about this?" she asked. The duke raised his eyebrows. "But of course. He was there when I visited, wasn't he?" The old man placed a hand on the young woman's shoulder. "That's why I'm so sorry to have had to force you to wed him. He is a part of that family in every aspect, and he is a part of this effort to rob of us our own gains. He is as grasping and covetous as the rest of them, and any attention he has payed you in the past months is an attempt to get information from you."

Surprised, Dorothy looked up, her brows furrowed in consternation. "I don't think he would-"

Then she stopped. She could remember, clearly, hints he'd dropped about things he disliked about Dermail and the duke; she could especially remember the time he'd all but said her grandfather was a tyrant.

She looked up at her grandfather with a newfound understanding of his words. It all made sense now. She'd been wondering, in a hidden recess of her heart, why Quatre seemed to be so kind to her. Previously she'd thought that he might be in love with her, but now, looking back on the past in light of this new revelation, it seemed apparent that it was all an act. She should have realized that someone like him would never have fallen in love with someone like her. She was too coarse, too unkind, too proud and too stubborn, especially for a man like Quatre; moreover, she certainly did not, she felt, have the looks to attract Quatre or any other man. It all made sense now. Quatre was only using her.

The duke left a few moments later, after bidding her goodbye. Dorothy sat very still on the rock for a long time after he'd gone. She couldn't believe that she'd been so taken in by Quatre's lies; she couldn't believe that less than an hour before she'd admitted to herself any kind of affection for the man- no, the boy. The undeserving creature deserved no respect from her. Dorothy scowled, picking up her sword and wondering why this new view of Quatre made her so upset. Shaking off the feeling, she turned and walked back to the castle, thinking seething thoughts toward her husband.

It never occurred to her that the duke might be lying.

Dorothy left Dermail Hall the Friday after Easter, still stiff with indignation over Quatre's apparent fiendishness. She was to go with her cousins as far as the crossroads at Lampton, where Quatre would meet her on his way back from Sandrock Hall and take her the remaining hour to Catalonia House.

After what seemed like the longest coach ride of her life, Dorothy found herself at Lampton, waiting for Quatre with an undue amount of consternation. How would she react to him? How could she best display her anger to him? _Will he be happy to see me?_ asked a vexing voice in the back of her mind. She shook the voice off and stepped toward Quatre's coach, which had just pulled into the yard of the inn.

The door opened quickly and Quatrestepped out, looking at her in a mix of quiet uncertaintyand hope. Remembering the argument they'd had the last time they saw each other, Dorothy thought she could understand why he- _No,_ she told herself firmly. _Don't sympathize with him._ Quatre looked around to see that her trunk was being loaded on, then held his hand out to help her up inside. Head lifted proudly, she brushed past him, refusing the offered hand, and sat down regally on one of the benches. Her husband followed uncertainly after her, obviously wondering what had triggered this change in her attitude.

As they rumbled into motion, he spoke to her earnestly. "Dorothy, what's the matter?" he asked. "Is it- I'm sorry about what I said to you in January. It was unkind of me to think you couldn't take care of yourself." Dorothy refused to answer, refused to listen to his sweet tones that sounded so sincere.

They sat in silence a few moments until Quatre spoke again, so quietly that she had to strain to hear him over the clopping of the horses' hooves. "Please say something," he pleaded quietly, and part of her heart went out to him in response. She forced herself to brush it off, however, and rode the rest of the way home in silence.

They were within a few minutes of Catalonia House when Quatre spoke again, timidly, not meeting her eyes. "Some friends, plus my uncle and a few cousins, follow close behind us on a trip south. They will be eating an early dinner with us, then continue on to reach the inn at Rampton Hill before dark." Dorothy, tired of not talking, snorted in reply. "Will be eating an early dinner with you," she retorted, before turning again to look out the window.

There was a moment of silence in the carriage, then before Dorothy had time to look back from the window, Quatre had fairly lunged across the coach and taken one of her hands in both of his own. She stifled a gasp and looked back at him. His pleading eyes were fixed on hers. Dorothy tried hard to ignore those eyes, to ignore the tingling sensations in the hand that was enclosed by his. His hands were large, warm and dry, and more chapped and roughened than she'd expected. She forced herself not to dwell on it, the way she was forcing herself not to dwell on his words. "Dorothy, what's the matter? I thought we were getting along before I left, but now- please talk to me. Please tell me what's wrong so I can try to make it right."

_It's a lie,_ she told herself. _He's just using me._ Taking a quick breath, she pulled her hand away from his. "Please stop that," she said angrily. "I know all about your family's plot. My grandfather told me all about the way you've been taking our lands and our gold." Quatre's surprise seemed very genuine. "What can you mean? We've done no such thing! If anything, your grandfather's men have been taking our gold."

He immediately looked sorry for what he'd said. "I didn't mean to imply you've done anything wrong. And the gold isn't important anyway-" Dorothylaughed skeptically and turned her gaze back to the window. Catalonia House was just a few turns in the road away. "No, the gold isn't important," she said, wondering at the shaking in her voice. "But my grandfather told me about other things, too."

"Dorothy!" Quatre cut in with a desperate edge to his voice, something she'd never heard from him before. "I know you love your grandfather, and I don't mean to offend you, but has it ever occurred to you that maybe he could be lying?"

Dorothy continued on as though he hadn't spoken. "My grandfather told me a lot of things I hadn't realized before," she said, finding herself twisting a piece of her skirt into an angry bunch. The coach had pulled up in front of Catalonia house, and a servant was moving to open the door. "He told me about how you've been using me just to get information to use in your little conquest."

Quatre looked as though he'd been struck, and Dorothy used the opportunity to get out of the coach. "Take this to my room," she ordered a servant, gesturing at her trunk as she passed it on her way inside.

There were footsteps running up behind her; apparently Quatre hadn't been struck speechless too long. She ignored him, then suddenly felt his hand on her upper arm, turning her to face him. The touch was very non-intimate, but it sent shivers up and down her spine, making her scowl angrily. She hated herself for feeling that way, and she hated him for the way he had come to affect her lately, especially as it was apparently all a ruse.

Quatre was speaking in pleading tones. "Please, Dorothy, you can't believe that. I would never use you like that." His other hand was moving unconsciously toward her face, to caress her cheek, but then he realized what he was doing and froze, leaving his arm out in mid-air. He shook his head and looked earnestly into her eyes, soft aquamarine meeting icy blue. "Dorothy, I wouldn't- it's actually just the opposite- Dorothy, I-"

He never finished his statement, for Dorothy's free hand suddenly came up to strike him across the face, turning his head away from her. While he was thus distracted, Dorothy twisted away from him and picked up her skirts. "Never come near me again," she said in a deceptively calm voice, then turned and ran toward the stables. Apparently Quatre had learned his lesson, because he did not follow her.

Flinging herself into Hecate's stall, Dorothy readied the horse quickly and mounted, not caring that she was on a regular saddle in a long dress. Hiking the skirt up to her knees so that she could face forward, she urged Hecate out of the stable and headed for the hills, eager to be away from Catalonia House and Quatre.

She rode for nearly an hour without a single thought passing through her mind. Horse and rider cantered over all the paths in the woods round about the castle, some of them several times. Finally, as she came out on a hill in front of the castle and just above the kirk, she came back to herself and pulled the horse to a halt. It was not yet dusk, and she could see with perfect clarity the group of riders pulling up to the front door of the house. Quatre's guests, she thought to herself, and remembered her declaration that she would not dine with them.

Instead, she moved back out of sight on the far side of the hill, looped Hecate's reigns around a tree and sat in the long grass. On the outside she was perfectly still and composed, but on the inside she was in turmoil. A hundred different feelings and voices were pulling her in all different directions. All the days and memories of her youth, all her affection for her relatives, joined in a loud cry, telling her that Quatre was a liar. All her pride in herself as an independent person was smirking that she was better off without him. And above it all, in a quiet, earnest tone, Quatre's voice was repeating, "I would never use you like that."

Dorothy mulled it all over until she thought her head would burst. Finally, when she saw the sun sinking toward the horizon and the storm clouds that were gathering above it, she realized it was time to go back home and face whatever came.

When she reached Catalonia House, Dorothy brought Hecate back to stables and crept to the servants' door. She snuck in through the kitchen, figuring that Quatre wouldn't be in there with his guests present. Her luck held out, and she snuck a slice of bread out of a basket and crept out of the kitchen and up the stairs without being seen. On the second floor were two passages that led to a landing above the dining room. Through these passages Dorothy could see the flickering light of torches and hear men's voices. Among the cacophony she heard her own name mentioned several times.

She hesitated at the mouth of the passages a moment, but then her curiosity overcame her and she crept down one of the passages, far enough to hear clearly but not far enough to be seen.

"-too much free reign. You can't trust them on their own. They are, after all, the weaker vessel."

A reply, too low to hear.

"Quatre, trust me, you're thinking too hard about this. There's only one thing they're good for. You don't need to spend so much time trying to win her over or some such nonsense."

The same voice replying, again inaudible, and this time she was sure it was her husband's.

A new voice replied. "All women seem special at first, but in the end they're all same."

A louder, rougher voice jeered, "Yes, they're all the same with the lights out!" There was laughter from some of the men. Yet another voice spoke up, slurred from too much drink: "Even your Miss Dorothy is, I'd wager, if you'd give her a try. If you don't feel up to the job, I wouldn't mind giving the wench a tumble myself!"

Amid the laughter that followed, Dorothy's fist closed around what remained of her bread, mashing it into a lump. Before she could react, though, there was the sound of a chair scraping back. "Gentlemen, I believe the evening is over." This was definitely Quatre, using a tight, controlled tone she'd never heard from him before. She dared a quick glance into the hall below and saw him standing stiffly at the table, seeming to tower over the men around him despite his smaller size. "But Quat-" started one of the men who'd been speaking before. Quatre cut him off. "No, Peter, the evening is over. You have insulted the honor of my wife and I must ask you to leave."

Dorothy scarcely heard the rest of the conversations as the men stood up to leave. She was leaning against the wall, her face flushed. Quatre had stood up for her, even though he didn't know she was listening. What could this mean? Before she could think more on it, though, she heard more voices and froze again. There seemed to be two people still in the room, Quatre and an older gentleman.

"So where is she tonight?" the old man asked. Quatre's sigh floated up to where Dorothy was listening. "We got in an argument. That grandfather of hers has been starting rumors." 

"Rumors?"

"He told her that not only are we infringing on their claim in the islands, but that I have been using her all this while to get information to send back to you."

The old man sighed. "Dermail seems to be up to his old tricks. He probably hopes that if he starts a war he can legally take more of our claim. I suspected as much when he came to visit me." So the old man was the baron, Richard, Dorothy realized. He, too, was speaking without knowing she was there, so he had no reason to lie. He had no reason to lie, and Quatre had no reason to lie. The only person who had a reason to lie was her grandfather.

Quatre and his uncle were still talking, and Dorothy turned her confused attention back to their words. "-bothers you, nephew?" Quatre let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh, and Dorothy felt a wrenching in her chest. "Yes, uncle. I love her."

Dorothy didn't hear the baron's reply, because she was running away from that room as fast as she could, through the halls, down the stairs, out the door and across the side lawn toward the woods. From her vantage spot, she could see Quatre at the front door, waving his guests goodbye as they rode away.

She fought her way through the tangled trees, off of any beaten path, unaware of any destination. It was hard to see because of the dusky twilight and the clouds nearly covering the sky and the tears that were welling up in her eyes and pouring in hot streams down her cheeks.

When she finally burst out of the undergrowth, she realized that her feet had taken her to the graveyard at the kirk. The kirk was up on a hill, in front and to the left of Catalonia House, and from the graveyard she could see the front door. Quatre was no longer there. Dorothy stumbled over to her favorite spot, a large tree next to the gate which led toward the castle. There, surrounded by the graves of her ancestors, she wrapped her arms around herself and began to cry in earnest.

Within a few moments, it began to rain, the droplets pouring down her face and mingling with her salty tears. The tree branches lacing over her head gave only minimal protection, and her fine dress, already dirty and slightly torn from her ride on Hecate earlier, was beginning to get sodden. The air was warm, though, so Dorothy made no move to get under shelter. She deserved this, she felt. She deserved to remain out in the steadily worsening storm.

After what seemed like both seconds and hours, Dorothy heard the gate swinging open. She didn't have to look up to know that it was Quatre, his fair hair plastered to his forehead, his long, plain tunic covered with dark splotches from the rain. "Dorothy, where have you been? I was so worried; the groom said you'd brought your horse back, but you weren't in the house. I've been looking everywhere-" She turned her head to look at him, and his brow furrowed as he saw her red-rimmed eyes.

"Dorothy?" he asked uncertainly, then sighed a little. "Look, I know you're not sure about my-" "I heard what you said to your uncle," she blurted out, her voice shaky from crying, her gaze fixed on the ground. Quatre stiffened, but Dorothy pressed on, tears still running down her face. "And I'm so sorry. I've been so terrible to you- the way I've treated you- and with my uncle . . ." She took a deep, unsteady breath. "You deserve so much better than me." At this Quatre reached out, somewhat tentatively, and placed his hand on her lower arm. Dorothy froze and looked up into his eyes, which looked nearly as unsure as she was sure her own did.

The two stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, tension palpable in the air between them. Then something changed, and Quatre was giving her a nervous smile, leaning in toward her, drawing her near to encircle her waist with his arm. She was trembling, but she stood still and allowed him, finally, to kiss her.

He pulled away almost immediately, waiting for her reaction. There was a moment of silence in which she stared at her husband, feeling a warmth spread throughout her trembling body. Then she leaned in to kiss him back. He smiled as he wrapped his arms around her, and the two lovers clung to each other as the rain fell around them.

--

Oh, there's just something about sap in the rain . . . That scene, under the tree, was the one I've had in my head since I began the fic, and I finally got it on paper! Hooray!

There's only one chapter left. Now, unfortunately, the original song takes a turn for the angsty. I'm actually really sad- when I started this fic, I liked the angsty factor, but now that I'm into it and I'm convinced that D/Q are the CUTEST couple ever, I really don't want to make it angsty. But the song is a sad one, and I have to follow it. :( So be prepared for the next and final chapter to be all sad. Boo!

Anyhow, please review! Reviews have been shown to improve health and help you lose weight when used in conjunction with a good diet and exercise, and I want to look good in a bathing suit this summer. ;) So please review!


	4. Chapter Four

Last chapter up!  This one, as previously stated, is rather more angsty (the song's fault, not mine.)  I had to change the fic's genre from Romance to Romance/Angst.  Very unfortunate.

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed – this is my first fic on ff.net where the reviews went on to two pages!  Hoorah!  (Of course, I've only submitted, like, three fics, but still . . .)  Here's my thank yous: lyric01 (my first review!), Candide Avedo,  f U n N i E b O n E s 2K, Vega03, White Witch (are you the one from Blissful Ignorance?), princess cythera, J.B. Santiago, Box Turtle, sweetangel4 (thanks- I pride myself on my grammar!), Sooti (I've never thought being called skeletal could be a compliment!), The Mysterious M, Kimzy Hardykinz, Xardio (oh, yes, sap in the rain), and SkysNight (it's really a beautiful song, isn't it?).  You guys are the reason I keep writing!

Final disclaimer: see previous chapters.  (I'm all disclaimer-ed out.)

PS  I don't know Mr. Winner's (Quatre's father) first name, so I called him Michael, which is his English voice actor's name.  Also, the advice Quatre gives Dorothy comes from Jane Eyre.

Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, and I hope all you who read this enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

---

_At the age of fourteen he was a married man  
At the age of fifteen he was the father of a son  
At the age of sixteen upon his grave the grass grew green  
For cruel death had put an end to his growin'_

The morning sunlight crept over the hills and up the side of the old castle, illuminating the ancient stones and worn battlements.  As the sky lightened, the servants began to move about in the lower levels of the manor, preparing for the day.  In the upper levels, though, all was still and quiet, although the sunlight was pouring in and filling the corridors and rooms.  The early morning sun washed into the master bedroom, but the two figures in the bed slumbered on., and it was not until the sun was well above the horizon that the mistress of the house stirred.

Dorothy awoke with a sigh and stretched luxuriously, reveling in the feeling of having slept late in a comfortable bed.  The sun was warm, her parents' old bed was soft, and she had nothing she had to do today- in short, she would be fairly content to stay in bed forever.

There was a sleepy sigh from the space next to her on the bed, and she looked over to see Quatre was still fast asleep, one arm thrown over her stomach, his face so close to her neck that she could feel his breath.   The blankets over him had slipped down so she could see most of his bare back, and she blushed a little.  Even after everything that had passed between them, she felt slightly embarrassed at being in bed with someone in such a state of undress.

As though he could feel her gaze, Quatre awoke and yawned, then smiled at her sleepily.  "Good morning," he said quietly, and reached up to kiss her.  Dorothy kissed him back, then grinned as he pulled away.  "Good morning to you," she smiled.  Quatre yawned again and lay back down, his head leaning against Dorothy's shoulder, the hand he still had over her stomach tracing lazy patterns on her side.  Dorothy sighed in contentment, feeling a happiness she hadn't felt in all the years of her childhood.

Her husband suddenly lifted his head to look at her, the hand he had on her stomach apparently reminding him of a question he'd had.  "I forgot to ask you yesterday- did you end up visiting the midwife?"  Dorothy grinned and put a hand to her stomach, lacing her fingers with his.  There, under their joined hands, was a barely discernible swelling.  It was hard to see, but the thickness she felt around her middle was real enough.  "Yes.  It's fairly early to say," she said happily, "but she says I seem to be riding high, so it will likely be a boy."

Quatre's eyes lit up, and he grinned widely and kissed her again.  "A son," he murmured, propping himself up on one elbow.  "Our first son."

Dorothy nodded..  "He'll be blonde-" she looked up and down the length of her husband's body- "and short."  Quatre made a noise of protest, but Dorothy, grinning, pressed on.  "And you'll teach him how to ride, but I'll have to teach him how to use a sword if we ever want him to be any good."

Her husband cocked an eyebrow at her.  "You think you're that good, do you?"

She grinned in reply.  "I'll wager he can beat you by the end of his first week."

"We'll just see about that," he told her, returning her smile.  He lay back with a contented sigh.  "So what are we going to name him?" he asked.  She shrugged, then said jokingly, "What about Colegrim, after your handsome cous- I mean . . ."  Immediately, Quatre's face appeared in her line of vision, his brows slightly furrowed.  Even after so much had passed between them, he was still uncertain about her feelings sometimes, as though he was afraid that she would change her mind about him.  Dorothy grinned in fond exasperation and placed her hands on either side of his worried face.  "I'm kidding, you daft thing," she said, and kissed his nose.

The concern immediately vanished from his face, and he settled back down into the bed, his arms around her and his face laid against her shoulder.  "How about Michael?" he asked, and Dorothy wrinkled her nose.  "That's a little dull, don't you think?  Why that?" she asked, and felt his arms tighten around her.  "It was my father's name," he said softly, and immediately she felt sorry for her words.  His father had died when he was eight, and he cherished the man's memory.  Dorothy rubbed Quatre's back soothingly.  "We've still got time to decide on a name."

Quatre smiled again at her before climbing out of bed and walking over to get dressed, a smile still playing on his lips.  Watching him, Dorothy burrowed down farther under the covers to hide her own smile.  Life had been idyllic over the last few months.  Quatre had always been good natured and kind, but ever since their conversation under the tree, his affection and attention to her had grown by leaps and bounds.  She'd thought no one could possibly be happier than he had been the first time she'd said "I love you," but he'd soon surpassed his own record.  Dorothy was sure she'd never seen anyone more pleased when she'd told him the week before that she was pregnant.

There were a few minutes of silence in the room as Quatre finished dressing.  Then, hesitantly, he turned back toward her.  "I received a letter from my uncle," he said, and Dorothy smiled.  "How is he?"  Baron Richard had come to visit them a few weeks previous, and Dorothy felt very close to the old man.  He was the only person besides Quatre who knew that she was pregnant, as she was waiting until she was farther along to tell her own family.

Quatre shrugged.  "He is well."  He paused, as though choosing his next words carefully, and Dorothy wondered what it was that he was so afraid to say.  Finally, he continued.  "He is worried about the threat of war with your family."  Dorothy stood, surprised, and walked over to grab a dressing gown.  "Why?" she asked, tying the sash around herself.  "What has happened?"

"Just the same as always," Quatre replied.  "The disputes over lands and gold.  Someone has been attacking my family's buildings and men by night, and my uncle fears they may be under Dermail's hire."

"My grandfather would never do such a thing," Dorothy said indignantly.  Quatre immediately began to apologize, but she turned away and began to get dressed.  In her mind, though, she doubted her own words.  She was finally beginning to gain perspective on the state of the real world, and over the last few months had realized that her grandfather was not the saint she sometimes made him out to be.  His lies about Quatre over Easter were proof of that.

"It's all right," she said to Quatre, who was still apologizing.  "I- I just don't know anymore."  Quatre kissed her cheek, then took her hand.  "Shall we go down to breakfast?"

At that moment, a knock came at the door.  "Yes?" Quatre called.

"It's Eliza, master," came the voice of their old housekeeper.  "Begging your pardon, sir, but there's a group of horsemen approaching.  The livery looks like my lady's family."  Quatre turned to look at Dorothy in surprise; she shrugged to show that she expected no visitors.  "We'll be right down, Eliza," Quatre said.  He nodded to Dorothy to finish dressing, his face calm, but she saw that he was fastening a scabbard and sword to his belt.  Feeling a sudden sense of unease, Dorothy quickly finished dressing, then followed her husband downstairs.

They had scarcely entered the dining hall, where they received all visitors even if it wasn't mealtime, when the whinnying of horses sounded outside.  Then the front door was thrown open and heavy footsteps sounded in the hall.  The door to the dining hall opened, and Falkirk, duke of Dermail, entered the room.  He spoke no words, but motioned at someone behind him.

The next few moments seemed to pass before Dorothy's eyes like a vision- slow, surreal, as though time had slowed down.  Three armed soldiers bearing the Dermail crest entered the room, swords drawn.  Dorothy moved to speak, but before the sound could escape her mouth the soldiers strode purposefully toward Quatre.  Her husband moved to draw his weapon, but he was too late, and the tallest of the three soldiers stepped forward and ran him through with his broadsword.

Dorothy watched all this in open-mouthed horror, unable to speak or move.  It was like a bad dream, but no matter how she tried she could not wake.  Her grandfather saw the look on her face and sighed.  "Casualties are necessary in war," he told her in a long-suffering voice.  "And war with the Raberbas is imminent.  We had to make a statement.  This was necessary for the good of-"

"Quatre!" Dorothy gasped, suddenly finding her voice.  She ran toward her fallen husband, pushing the soldiers still standing around him out of her way.  Quatre lay on the cold stone, his fine clothes growing steadily more soaked with the crimson blood pouring out of the wound in his side.  Having grown up around battle wounds, Dorothy didn't even have to lift the fabric of his tunic out of the way to know that the wound was fatal, and Quatre was going to die.

Falling to her knees next to him, Dorothy grabbed one of his cold hands in both of hers and held it to her face.  Quatre stirred and looked up at her tear-stained eyes.  "You can't leave me," she whispered, not trusting her voice enough to speak.  "This isn't fair."

Quatre smiled at her and spoke in a failing voice.  "Life may not always be fair. We must accept this, or forever live in torment."  He gave her a warm, wise smile she had seen many times before, when he was dispensing words of wisdom.  She marveled at him- he lay dying on the ground, and yet his greatest worry was to comfort her.  Then his smile softened into a loving look.  "Besides, I'll never leave you.  Not really."

He raised his free hand, bloodstained and shaking, to brush a loose strand of hair out of her face.  She smiled shakily at him.  "I love you," she whispered.  "I love you," he replied, equally quietly.  Then the hand that was brushing her hair out of her face stilled, then fell to his side.  Quatre smiled at Dorothy, and then his gaze fell away from her and stared into the distance, fixed on something she could not see.  One last breath escaped his lips, and then he moved no more.  Dorothy stared in disbelief at his still face, then collapsed on the ground next to him and began to cry in earnest.

_Oh the trees they grow high and the leaves they grow green  
Many is the time that my own true love I've seen  
Many is the hour that I've watched him all alone  
For he's young but he's daily growin'_

Quatre was buried late that afternoon at the kirk on the hill.  Eliza, the old housekeeper, would have waited a bit longer, to invite some relatives and have a proper wake, but Dorothy had her own reasons for wanting it done quickly.  The service was quiet and traditional- just what Quatre would have wanted.  It was performed by the old priest at the kirk; the same man who both married and buried Dorothy's parents would now bury her husband.

The kirk was nearly empty- the only people in attendance were Dorothy, the servants from Catalonia House, and all of the locals who could be found at such short notice.  All were perfectly willing to attend- in his short time as master of Catalonia House, Quatre had proved himself a kind and generous employer and landlord.

No relatives were invited because the ones who lived closest were all from her side of the family and she suddenly hated them, hated every last smirking arrogant member of the house of Dermail.  The duke, of course, didn't stay long at the castle at all after Quatre died.  He tried to talk to Dorothy, who he'd obviously thought still hated her husband and so wouldn't have minded his death.  He followed her around the house for a few minutes, talking incessantly, as she went to get the servants and send for the priest, to prepare Quatre's body for burial.

Dorothy, of course, didn't answer, and was very glad when he left.  If he'd stayed much longer, she felt sure she would have snapped and tried to kill him with his own broadsword, and then he surely would have killed her.  She felt as though she wouldn't have minded such a death, but she was responsible for another life now.  The child she carried was all she had left of Quatre, and she would do anything to keep it safe.

And so she had ignored the duke entirely, feeling that silence was her best defense.  To defy the duke was to invite retaliation, but to remain in his good affections was criminal, an unforgivable slight to Quatre's memory.  Until the duke had left, she'd simply carried on, preparing for the burial, not saying a word or shedding a tear.  Finally, after what seemed to Dorothy like several years, he finally left, taking his soldiers with him.  Dorothy was glad to see him go, and as she watched him and his men disappear over the horizon, she laid a hand on her stomach and whispered, "He is no longer my grandfather."

Quatre's body was laid to rest under the tree in the corner of the graveyard, surrounded by the bodies of Dorothy's relatives long since dead.  It was raining when the stablemen buried him, the clouds obscuring the slanting afternoon sun, for which Dorothy was glad.  It seemed fitting that he should be laid to rest in the rain, in the same place where he had finally received what he'd wanted so long- her love.  The thought that he had loved her so much made her, for the first time since the duke had left that morning, begin to cry.

The other people around the grave- the priest, the servants, the local farmers- all watched her uneasily, unsure of how to react to the crying woman who had been so hard-hearted and cold just a few months before.  There were a few minutes of silence, Dorothy standing alone and crying in the warm rain, and then Eliza approached her tentatively.  The old woman placed a gnarled hand on Dorothy's shoulder, and the proud mistress of Catalonia House promptly threw her arms around the aged servant and began to sob.  That broke the ice, and soon all the mourners were surrounding her, embracing her and patting her shoulders and murmuring their condolences.

Nearly an hour later, almost everyone had gone home.  Only three figures remained standing at the grave: Dorothy, tears still in her eyes; the old priest, laying a fatherly hand on her shoulder; and Eliza's husband Hill, the head groomsman, who had stayed up there to make sure the mistress got home safely.

Dorothy stared at the freshly turned mound of earth and the wooden cross at its head, which would be replaced by a proper tombstone as soon as it could be made.  The order was already in to the local stone mason.  Dorothy had turned in the order and written the inscription herself; although Hill had offered to do it, Dorothy had wanted to do as much as she could for Quatre's burial.

After quite some time of this, the priest spoke up.  "My dear, I think it is time you went home.  We don't want you catching ill."  Dorothy nodded and curtsied to him.  "Thank you for everything," she whispered, and he smiled and patted her shoulder.  "That's what I'm here for, dear."  After he had disappeared into the little house behind the church, her lips twisted into a rueful smile.  He hadn't understood her message; when she'd said "thank you for everything," she really meant _everything_.  That was her goodbye.

Back down at the house, Dorothy hurried up to her room, where the bundle she'd packed earlier was waiting on her and Quatre's bed.  It contained, among other things, all the money she possessed, as well as a few sentimental items she'd taken from the house.  Also on the bed was a set of peasant's clothing she'd gotten from the scullery maid.  The girl had been willing to give them to her for free, but Dorothy insisted on paying well for them, warning the girl to keep the money hidden from the duke.  Dorothy changed into the clothes and grabbed the bundle, then looked once more around the room.  If she closed her eyes, she could still feel Quatre there, hear his voice, smell him.  "Goodbye," she whispered, then hurried out of the room.

Only Hill, Eliza, and the scullery maid knew of Dorothy's plan, and they were all waiting in the kitchen to bid her farewell.  They all had a story to feed the duke, about Dorothy's grief driving her to run away and enter a convent.  The duke would be annoyed, but he wouldn't presume to try to pull her away from a house of God, and so he wouldn't follow her at all.  Dorothy, one hand on her stomach, was glad again that she hadn't told the duke of her pregnancy.  She was not sure he would give up a half-Raberba child so easily.

Hill had readied Hecate, and Eliza and the scullery maid were busily filling her saddle bags with food.  When all was prepared, the servants all hugged Dorothy, and Eliza gave her a family broach for luck.  Her eyes filled with tears, Dorothy hugged Eliza again, then ran outside and rode Hecate out of the yard, never looking back.

She'd been thinking about where to go and had decided almost immediately on Sandrock Hall, the home of the Raberbas.  Baron Richard would take her in.  She'd only met the man a few times, but she felt certain that he would not turn her away, especially since he knew she carried Quatre's child.

She had to hurry if she was to reach Hill's sister's home across the border before it became too dark to ride, but there was one thing she had to do first.  Urging Hecate out into the darkening, rainy grass, Dorothy pointed the horse toward the kirk.  Once there, she tied Hecate to the gate and pulled the item she'd packed especially for this out of a saddlebag, then knelt to lay it across Quatre's grave.  The wooden practice sword looked very odd, laying there on the mound of dirt, but Dorothy could almost hear Quatre laughing in delight at such an offering.  "You were right," she whispered to the wooden cross, tears beginning to fall again.  "War and hatred can only lead to sorrow."

As she knelt there, staring at the sword with which she had so often sparred with Quatre, she felt nearly overwhelmed by the maddening senselessness of it all.  She was tempted to fall onto the dirt next to him and never rise again, but Quatre's final words came back to her.  "Life may not always be fair.  We must accept this, or forever live in torment."  He was right; she couldn't live the rest of her life in torment.  As she knelt there, she suddenly felt sure she felt his hand against her cheek, and his voice sounded in her ears.  "Besides, I'll never leave you.  Not really."

With a shaky smile, Dorothy pulled herself to her feet, her tears changing from ones of sorrow to ones of gratitude.  She had changed so much, because he had loved her.  She hoped he knew that up in heaven.  Wiping away her tears, she placed one hand on her stomach.  "It's time to leave, Michael.  Say goodbye to your father."  She stood there a moment longer, then walked back to the gate and mounted Hecate.

She took one last look back at Quatre's grave, its wooden marker silhouetted against the drizzly sky, and then Dorothy urged Hecate out of the graveyard and vanished into the deepening shadows.

_Oh the trees they grow high and the leaves they grow green  
Many is the time that my own true love I've seen  
Many is the hour that I've watched him all alone  
For he's young but he's daily growin'_

fin

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Please review, if you feel so inclined.

Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story- you guys are fantastic.  To close on a medieval-esque note, in keeping with the story, let me paraphrase A Knight's Tale:

To everyone who read, God save you, if it is right that he should do so.

(Yes, that is a joke.)

Rock out.


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